Return of the Nightbird
by Zylly
Summary: Marissa and the Earthforce reactivate the robot Nightbird and learn her origin is far more complicated than anyone suspected.


As a rule, Marissa didn't much trust politicians. They were often too concerned with looking good or pleasing their voters instead of being concerned with doing that was right. Given that her job, particularly since becoming liaison to the Autobot Earthforce, entailed a fair degree of political wrangling, she supposed she should revise her opinion. Then again, she was nearly seventy. If she hadn't changed her opinion by now, then it wasn't likely she would.

She held CEOs and the like just somewhere below politicians on the ranking on people she wanted to deal with. Unfortunately, her job currently required her to be dealing with one, namely G.B Blackrock, Jr. The man's father, the first G.B. Blackrock, had been one of the Autobot's staunchest supporters during their early days on Earth, and a primary supplier of the materials and energy that had been needed when building Autobot City.

Like his father, Blackrock was a handsome man, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed moustache who hid his intelligent eyes behind thick glasses. When he moved about a room, it didn't seem so much that he was moving as the room was shifting to accommodate his will. "I want to thank you again, General, for meeting with me," he said.

"It's no trouble," she replied, fighting to keep the irritation out of her voice. "You said you had something that might be of interest to the Autobots?"

"Indeed," Blackrock said, nodding. "I don't know how well you follow the business world, General…"

"Not much, I'm afraid."

"All right, then you should know I recently acquired Fujiyama Industries, a robotics development company."

The name struck a vague memory with Marissa, but she couldn't quite place where. "Go on," she prompted.

"Many years ago, its founder, Yoshi Fujiyama, developed a Transformer-scale robot named Nightbird. Nightbird was abducted by the Decepticons and turned into a weapon to use against the Autobots. The Autobots, of course, eventually recaptured her and returned Nightbird to Fujiyama, who placed her into cold storage. Nightbird was, for all intents and purposes, forgotten about, until some of my people discovered her storage capsule in one of the warehouses."

"I've yet to see how this will interest the Autobots," Marissa interrupted. "I remember the Nightbird case now, from the files. If you want my recommendation, I'd suggest dismantling it."

"Her, General."

"I generally don't assign gender to glorified toaster ovens, Blackrock. Nightbird was a tinker-toy, compared to the Transformers. Not even alive."

"That's where you're wrong, General. I've had my people examine her and there is definite brainwave activity. I fear… I fear a sentient mechanoid may have been imprisoned for over sixty years."

Marissa felt her blood run cold.

Marissa watched with fascination as air in front of the hangar rippled and shimmered until a great tear in the fabric of space itself opened up, disgorging a white sports car converted for medical duty; a small, almost squashed looking yellow car; a motorcycle made out of what appeared to junk, and a Quintesson.

It was the Autobot Earth Net, a variation on the Decepticon Space Bridge of old. But rather than transporting things from one planet to another, it allowed for instantaneous between Autobot Headquarters and any other point on the planet—provided there was enough space to permit the spatial distortion to open and the exact co-ordinates were known. The brainchild of the Autobot Scientist Twincast, it was, while far from perfect, a preferable alternative to driving to places such as Bali or the North Pole.

The three vehicles quickly transformed, unfolding into the Earthforce members Medi-1, Bumper, and Pistachio, respectively. Medi was Marissa's closest friend on the Earthforce, a medic with a surprising wit and gentle, if usually quiet, nature. Pistachio was nearly Medi-1's complete opposite. A Junkion rather than an Autobot, she shared her people's love of all things TV and had the attention span of a fruit fly. Still, since she also shared her people's talent for fixing and/or being able to build just about anything, she did have her uses.

Bumper, meanwhile, was the smallest Autobot Marissa had ever met, smaller than even Bumblebee, with a somewhat boxy structure, and large, goggle-like eyes. A historian by function, he was also the Earthforce's expert in Earth culture, and, as such often worked closely with Marissa. Like Pistachio and a few others, he was a recent addition to the Earthforce, reinforcements added to swell their ranks since the Earthforce became a more active part of Earthen affairs.

And, of course, there was Furmanata, the Quintesson scientist. Strange as it seemed, he really was on their side, having helped develop the Earth Net, among other things. The victim of brainwashing by his own people, he was still a little frayed around the mental edges and arrogant to aggravating extremes, but was basically a decent being. Or so Marissa told herself. Quintessons fell right between businessmen and politicians on the list of people she didn't trust.

"Mr. Blackrock," she began, "may I introduce Medi-1, Bumper, Furmanata, and…Pistachio."

"A pleasure to meet you all," Blackrock said.

Medi and Bumper responded with a general greeting. Furmanata simply nodded and said "Human," which, for him, was pretty good. Pistachio, of course, had to be different.

"How-dididly-ding-dong-dy, neighborino," she bubbled.

The others gave their oblivious comrade a glare that could have stripped paint. Marissa hoped that the annoyance she was feeling didn't show on her face. "Anyway, why don't you show us Nightbird, Mr. Blackrock?"

"Certainly," Blackrock said. "Right this way."

Pressing a combination of numbers on the mounted keypad, Blackrock opened the doors of the hangar behind them. It had recently been cleared out, only a large stasis tube and the necessary monitoring equipment remained.

The Earthforce-members immediately went to work. Bumper, opening a small panel on the side of his head, pulled out a small length of cable and connected the end of it to the computer terminal. Once he did so, a look of concentration appeared on his face and endless rows of green zeroes and ones appeared on his goggle-like optics. Not that any Earthen computer system would have been difficult for a Transformer to access, but Bumper's skills as a historian and archivist made him a master at sifting through data. Soon enough, the little Autobot would know everything that was in the computer.

The other three, being of a more practical mechanics bent, examined the stasis chamber itself. Medi and Pistachio focused their attentions on the actual equipment, while Furmanata focused on Nightbird. They worked for several long minutes and occasionally made noises of interest and confusion, or whispered softly to each other. Once, Marissa saw Furmanata's tentacles snap with whip-like speed. A sure sign something had surprised the Quintesson scientist.

Finally, the Autobots turned as one to face Marissa and Blackrock.

"Well?" asked the CEO. "What did you find?"

"Well, Mr. Blackrock," Bumper said, rubbing that back of his head absently, "that's kinda hard to say. It sure _looks_ like Nightbird there is experiencing something a lot like brainwave actitivity…"

"But we can't be sure that isn't just a fault of the equipment itself, since we're unfamiliar with it," Medi-1 finished. "With your permission, we'd like to take her back to our headquarters for further examination."

Blackrock offered her a small smile and wave. "Take her. I've certainly got no use for a ninja-robot. And if she's as alive as we all seem to think she is, then I've no right to keep her anyway."

"Well, that's right nice of you," Pistachio said, adopting a cowboy-accent. She then switched to an Elvis accent. "A-thank-yew, a-thank-yew very much."

"We'll send a transport unit shortly then," Marissa said. Still, something about this whole affair struck her as a bad idea. Whether it was her general distrust of corporate types, her remaining uneasiness with Furmanata and the idea of letting him anywhere near something that could be used as a weapon, or just the good sense that had kept her alive in a dangerous job in an increasingly dangerous universe, she wasn't sure. Not to mention she thought it was a spectacularly stupid idea to be fiddling with what, sentient or not, amounted to a Decepticon weapons plantform.

"Care to come back with us, Marissa?" Medi asked, transforming as she spoke.

"Sure," Marissa said, climbing inside her friend. While there was a mountain of paperwork awaiting her at her office in EDC Headquarters, she wanted to be present when the Autobots started examining Nightbird. Given that Nightbird might well be a sentient being, anything done, in fact, everything that already _had_ been done, could be interpreted in a variety of ways, from any number of ethical and legal viewpoints. It would be best to have someone outside of the Transformers and Quintesson present to witness whatever might occur.

Marissa sat in her specialized chair in the Earthforce conference room, hovering at about head-height with Bumper and Medi, who were seated on her right. Pistachio was sitting to her left, absently spinning her tire-shield on her finger. Seated past her was an imposing, blocky black Autobot with a massive cannon on his shoulder. Face-plated and not given much to expression anyway, Bullseye was as good a shot as his name implied. Further past him was Shooter, all gleaming white and cobalt-blue. Though possessed of a fully-functioning face, he remained as impassive as Bullseye. In fact, Marissa could only remember seeing Shooter with two different expressions: stone-faced serious…and annoyed. Annoyance usually directed towards Pistachio, as a matter of fact. The Junkion femme didn't seem to gel with his well ordered universe.

The other Earthforce members—Convoy, Artfire, Twincast, Stepper, Grand Slam, and Raindance—were currently overseas on a goodwill mission. Medi-1, being the ranking member remaining, was supposedly in command, but, as no major disasters had arisen, in didn't matter much.

Shooter looked down at the chronometer built into his wrist and gave a sneer of annoyance. "He's late. And Pistachio?"

"Youuuu raaaaang?"

"Stop that and sit still."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Why?"

Marissa wasn't absolutely certain, but she thought she saw Shooter's antenna droop slightly.

"Pistachio," she said, "the more you sit still, the faster this will be over with and the sooner you can do something fun, OK?"

"OK, I love you, bye-bye!"

With that, she replaced her shield in its storage compartment on her back, folded her hands, and sat up straight. If she strained her hearing though, Marissa was certain she could make out the faint hum of some old television show's theme song. Shooter, for his part, gave her a nod of thanks.

Finally, after several long seconds in which it looked like Pistachio was about to say something that was sure to aggravate someone, the doors to the conference room opened and Furmanata, the "he" in question, floated inside with the air of someone who's made you wait solely because he could. He might have been on their side, but certain Quintesson habits were still ingrained in him.

"I have examined the one you call Nightbird," he said somberly. "And, discounting the modifications made to her by the Decepticons, I can say with a 97 probability that she is not of Earthen make. Whoever claimed to have created her…did not. Even by the most heh heh heh, ah, 'advanced' human technologies of today, human tech is too pitifully primitive to have birthed her."

"So, would you like to spin or try and solve the puzzle?" Pistachio blurted out. "Or you could blow it all and go for the mystery box!"

"I am sorry...what?" Furmanata asked, blinking in confusion.

Bumper supplied translation. "I believe Pistachio wants to know if you have any ideas on just who _did_ build her, if Fujiyama did not."

"Oh," Furmanata replied. "Why didn't she just...? Never mind. I don't need to know. But yes, I do believe I know who built her. I can say with a 90 certainty that Nightbird…"

He cast a glance around the room, his gaze practically passing over Marissa and Pistachio, while lingering on all the others. "That Nightbird is of Quintesson manufacture."

The various Earthforce members remained silent, seemingly unable to comprehend what Furmanata had just told them. It was inconceivable. Of course, Marissa had had to readjust her definition of inconceivable several times in the last few months, so at this point she was basically willing to believe anything anyone told her, up to the sale of cheap oceanfront property in Arizona.

"Are you certain?" Medi-1 asked the Quintesson.

"Are you audio-sensors malfunctioning, Autobot?" he shrieked. "Oh, no, don't trust one of the beings who designed the specifications for your _entire race_! Don't trust the one who's been around for over _twelve million years_! Don't _dare_ assume a being with a twelfth-level intellect knows what he's doing!"

He stopped when he realized everyone was staring at him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But yes, yes I am certain Nightbird is Quintesson technology. Discounting the obvious Decepticon modifications, she is nearly a 100 match for the robotic beings that were your, ah, predecessors."

"Well, golly, Mr. Wizard, can you say 'Holy Surprise, Batman?' I knew you could!"

Marissa watched as Shooter buried his head in his hands, and struggled not to laugh. Pistachio could be annoying, she knew, but he seemed to take personal offense every time she opened her mouth. She was going to send the poor security officer to the crazy house, or wherever it was they sent Autobots when they started going a little bonkers.

"All right," Bumper said, trying to diffuse any the tension that was starting to rise, "let's be calm about this. Fact: Nightbird, apparently through a combination of being Quintesson technology and Decepticon tampering, is sentient and possibly as alive as we are. Fact: The records I was able to scan suggest that Dr. Fujiyama was never able to successfully reprogram her or undo any of the Decepticon tampering."

"So she'd be a potential danger if we tried to wake her up," Shooter interrupted. "Not that I don't think we could handle her, but it's never a good idea to court unnecessary risk."

"On the other hand," Bumper continued, "while Nightbird may be potential dangerous, none of her actions can likely be labeled as her fault. And to keep an innocent being imprisoned…"

"Goes against everything we stand for."

Marissa jerked in surprise. The voice, soft and light, almost a loud whisper, had caught her off guard, as she couldn't identify the person to whom it belonged. It was neither Bumper's youthful tones, nor was Shooter, who somehow managed to sound like one of those policemen in old movies who told teenagers they were overreacting when some supernatural creature showed up and chopped people to bits.

It was Bullseye. Marissa suddenly realized she'd never heard him speak before. From the look on Medi and Bumper's faces, she could tell this was a rare occurrence indeed.

"You're…you're absolutely right, Bullseye," Medi said, trying not to let her surprise show. "Furmanata, how feasible is reactivating Nightbird?"

"I can have it done in an hour."

"That's fast."

"One always estimates high, my dear."

"Or your next pizza is free!"

Medi-1 chuckled at that, but quickly regained her composure. "Well, then, as acting commander, you have my approval to proceed."

After Furmanata had completed his work on Nightbird—which took a mere thirty-seven minutes—the Autobots decided to activate her in their small hangar bay, which, since half the team was away, contained exactly one shuttle. It was probably their best place to activate a potentially homicidal ninja robot, given that it allowed adequate space for fighting and was as reasonably escape proof as any hangar could be said to be. At Medi's insistence, Marissa was using the exo-suit they kept for her to use in emergencies.

"Keep weapons holstered," Medi instructed. "We don't want to appear hostile." She cast a worried glance at Bullseye's massive shoulder cannon, which was currently in its rest-setting, the barrel pointing straight up. There was little they could do about that. "But be ready to defend yourself if necessary."

She looked over to their Quintesson ally. "Ready?"

"Ready," Furmanata said. His tentacles flew over the control panel attached to the stasis pod and, with the slight hiss of escaping gases, the pod snapped open, revealing the Transformer-size, slightly feminine, gray and purple robot called Nightbird.

For a moment, nothing happened and an uneasy stillness filled the air. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, Nightbird's optics lit up, filling with yellow light. As soon as her optics reached full illumination, she leapt straight up, rotating as she did, and kicked her heels against the ceiling, propelling herself to the far side of the room, where she executed a flawless landing. Her hands vanished in a flash of light and were replaced by a pair of spinning saw blades.

Shooter and Bullseye tensed, their hands held directly above their blasters. Medi shot them a quick look and they moved their hands away. Maintaining optic-contact with Nightbird, Medi took a hesitant step forward, her hands held up to show that she was unarmed. "Don't be afraid," she said. "We won't harm you. We've freed you. You're free. Do you understand?"

Though she did not move, Nightbird's blades ceased spinning. She seemed to be sizing Medi up, evaluating how much of a threat the medic was. The others, for their part, remained absolutely silent. Even Furmanata managed to be quiet and kept his twitching to a minimum.

And then all hell broke lose, for Pistachio decided to speak.

"Consider, if you will," she said, "our…"

And then Nightbird _moved_. Faster than Marissa could follow, she was clinging to the ceiling, throwing _shuriken _at the Autobots. Several imbedded themselves in Shooter, who placed his bulk in front of Marissa, even as he drew his weapon, firing almost uselessly, as Nightbird crawled, spider-like, across the ceiling.

Bullseye too, had acted quickly, placing himself in front of Furmanata. His hand-weapon forgotten, his shoulder cannon snapped into place and tracked Nightbird. There was a brief flaring in the weapon's barrel as he prepared to fire, but it was stopped, rather violently, as a throwing dagger jammed inside.

The others likewise drew their weapons, and they each failed to shoot Nightbird, instead sustaining various injuries and loss of weapons to her, as she scuttled about, almost fearfully.

A larger, bladed disc leapt from her hands and connected with Pistashio, severing her head. Both pieces of the Junkion fell the ground with a thunk.

Finally, a bolt of yellow energy lanced out and tagged Nightbird, seemingly freezing her where she clung. Then, for reasons Marissa could not fathom, she too, fell to the floor with a clunk. Tracking the source of the shot, Marissa found it was Bumper, a little bit of smoke still trailing from his pistol. "Decelerator pistol," he explained, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly again. "Slows stuff down. I, ah, figured she was using some kind of static cling, so…"

"You did good," Marissa said. She would have made a joke about putting him in for a raise, but her thoughts quickly returned to poor Pistashio. She may have annoyed the hell out of Marissa, but that did not mean she wanted her dead. "But what about…"

"It slices, it dices, it will even make Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco Treat. Ninety-Day Warranty for just pennies a day, operators are standing by," Pistachio's head bubbled, even as her body got up, grabbed her head, and replaced it on her neck with a slightly squishy sound. Upon closer examination, Marissa could see cables in her neck reknitting themselves. "You've got my double-your-money-back-guarantee!"

Marissa didn't know whether to hug or throttle her.

"Well," Medi-1 said, "that could have gone better. Everyone basically all right?"

"I've been better," Bullseye replied. If the knife-buried in his shoulder-cannon bothered him, it didn't show. "Any idea why she went berserk on us?"

"Well," Bumper said, "her last memories would have been of being assaulted and captured by Transformers, followed by imprisonment. I studied the files. I'm sorry, I…I should have realized…"

"You couldn't have known she would react so violently," Medi said. "The question is, then, what do we do now? As loathe as I am to suggest we keep a basically innocent being subverted, if we reactivate her again, she'll likely just attack us once more."

"I'd recommend we keep her deactivated, for now," Shooter said, "while keeping open the possibility of reactivating her at a later time."

It was a difficult situation, to be certain. Marissa, for one, didn't care for nearly being killed, though she supposed she knew what she was getting into when she took the job, instead of retiring to Florida where she could enjoy her golden years and have a cabana boy bring her drinks with little umbrellas in them. "I'm sure her Decepticon programming had something to do with her aggressive behavior too," she said. "Is there anyway to work around some of the Decepticon modifications?"

It was then that she noticed Pistachio was leaning over Nightbird, doing…something. Alarm bells started going off in Marissa's head. As she'd heard from Medi, Pistachio was always trying to "improve" things in the Earthforce Headquarters. While whatever she did usually worked, no one could ever say they were really pleased with the results. Apparently, she'd once reworked Teletran-4 so it sounded like it had been sucking helium, built a dog out of spare Autobot parts, and built a flying bicycle that apparently could not actually fly but managed to anyway. And that was just in the first half of that particular day. Following that, the Earthforce worked _very_ hard to make sure she was always supervised.

Fortunately, the others also noticed what Pistachio was doing. "Step away from her, Pistachio," Shooter said. "Now."

"I cannot! I am engaged in _highly_ scientific experiments!" Pistashio said, cackling and sporting a German accent for some reason. "I can rebuild her! Make her better than before! But I don't want to spend a lot of money."

Bullseye quickly moved closer and placed a retraining hand on Pistachio's arm. "Give it up," he said, quietly. "We all want to help her…but this isn't the way."

Pistachio allowed him to haul her to her feet. However, the grin had not vanished from her face. Good evening, ladies and germs! It's the Muppet Show! With our very special guest…Nightbird!"

At her prompting, Nightbird stood, carefully, her optics now a soothing shade of blue. "I am sorry," she said, speaking slowly, carefully forming the words.

"I am sorry," she said again, with a bit more confidence, "for everything I have done."

Medi-1 gave Pistachio a glare. "My office…_now_." She hissed.

Technically, it was Convoy's office, but, given that Medi's officer was all the way in the med-bay and she obviously wanted to start ranting sooner, she opted to take Pistachio and Marissa there. Medi placed Pistachio in one of the chairs (after taking away her tire shield so she wouldn't be distracted by it) and simply paced back and forth in front of the Junkion, as though trying to decide what to say.

Marissa, for her part, wasn't quite sure what to make of what had happened. While, on the one hand, Pistachio had managed to get Nightbird both reactivated and nonviolent, _what_ exactly, had she done to her to make it happen? Had the Junkion done much as the Decepticons once had, and imprinted something outside Nightbird upon her? It didn't seem likely, Pistachio seemed too scatter-brained, too much of a free-spirit, to do something like that, yet, as her mere undertaking of such a task indicated, she was also an island of screwy priorities.

Finally, Medi stopped and locked optics with Pistachio. "_What_," she said, her voice harsher than Marissa could ever remember hearing, "_the slag,_ did you _do?_"

"You want the _truth_? You _can't han…_" Pistachio's voice petered out as Medi gave her a glare.

"Cut the _slagging_ TV-Talk. If you do not, and listen to me _very carefully_ now, if you do not explain to me what you did, in normal terminology, I will use a low-power laser scalpel to cut you into many pieces, mail each one to a different planet, and then instruct the recipients of those parts to smash them into smaller pieces and repeat the process until it would take more junk than is currently in existence to put you back together."

It took several long seconds for Medi's words to work their way to Pistachio's central processor, but they were quite effective. When next she spoke, it was in normal terms. "I added a vocalizer," she said. Medi's words had had a visible effect on her. She seemed somehow smaller than she was, and would only look at the floor.

"Yes, yes," Medi snapped. "That's pretty clear. But what _else_ did you do?"

"Medi," Marissa started, a word of warning in her voice.

"Quite, Marissa. This isn't your affair. _What_ did you do, Pistachio?"

"I took out the Decepticon stuff and added some extra doo-dads from my systems, and fixed-up a couple other things. And I tinkered with some wires and stuff and added some of my energon and a sparkly thingy showed up all of a sudden even though I couldn't have done that and…"

_OK_, Marissa thought, _that doesn't sound good. "Sparkly thingy" probably means spark, but how on Earth would Pistachio have…_

Medi held up a hand for Pistachio to quit speaking, but did not seem as upset as she was. "All right," she said, calmly, "when you tried to 'fix' Nightbird, you somehow made a 'sparkly thing' appear inside her?"

"You've got it, dude."

"OK, 'stachi', you can go. I might want to talk about this later though, ok?"

"Sure thing," Pistachio said, and headed out the door. She looked back as she crossed the threshold. "Thanks, Chief."

As Pistachio stepped out of view, Medi started to say, "And don't call me..." but stopped herself. "Why did I almost say that?"

Marissa offered her a shrug. "You got pretty intense there, Medi."

Medi nodded and sat down in Convoy's chair with a sigh. Were it not for the seriousness of the situation, Marissa would have laughed. Quite a bit taller and many times larger than Medi-1, Convoy's chair was built for his massive frame. Medi looked almost comically small sitting in it. "You… I don't think you'd understand, Marissa."

"Try me."

"All right. You humans, your personalities, they're a part of you when you're born, right? Certain aspects of your being, at any rate."

"That's what a lot of people believe."

"But basically, you grow and learn and change. And, after a certain point, certain aspects of you become set, barring horrible trauma or epiphanies, right? Well, for we mechanical beings, while some of what we are is set in our spark, so much of what we are is programming. Highly complicated programming, but it is programming all the same. To someone with the right kind of training, who we are is infinitely mutable. Among our people, to do this, to alter the core of what someone is, is a horrible, horrible, unforgivable crime. When Nightbird changed so suddenly…"

"You thought Pistachio had changed her personality."

"Right. I'm still not totally sure she didn't… But we do know she didn't have a spark before. Much like the earliest Cybertronians. We developed those over time, first becoming more and more self-aware, more sentient, and eventually what you would call truly alive."

"So Pistachio might have somehow sped up Nightbird's natural evolution?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I don't know what to do, Marissa."

"Join the club, Medi. People in command claim they know what to do, but they're just making really good guesses."

"Slag it, I'm a doctor, not a commander."

It was all Marissa could do not to laugh.

Medi and Marissa returned to the main chamber of the Earthforce headquarters to find Bumper and Furmanata performing various scans on Nightbird using Teletran-4. Shooter and Bullseye looked on, both grim-faced and serious. Neither had their weapons out, but Marissa knew that they could both have them drawn in less time than it would take many an ordinary being to even begin to move. Pistachio was nowhere to be seen, though a smaller picture in the corner of Teletran's screen showed her in her quarters, watching television and playing with dolls that looked suspiciously like Optimus Prime and Megatron.

"Any luck figuring out what Pistachio did?" Medi asked. "She claims to have created a 'sparkly thing,' which I would wager means a spark…"

"That would fit with your friends' analysis, Medi-1," Nightbird said.

At Medi and Marissa's surprised look, Nightbird quickly said, "I'm sorry. Did I say something incorrect? I admit, speech is new to me, but…"

"You're fine, ah, Nightbird," Medi replied. "That _is_ what you'd like to be called, correct?"

"That is the term most commonly associated with myself. I suppose it shall do. But tell me, where is the one who gave me life? I should like to thank her."

"She's around," Marissa replied, stepping in for the still-somewhat baffled Medi. "I'm sure you'll have a chance later."

She looked over to Bumper and Furmanata. "And what've you guys found out?"

"The same as my original analysis, human," Furmanata snapped. "Nightbird is of Quintesson manufacture. How she managed to be on this mudball of a planet or in the stewardship of an overrated scientist, I do not know. However, I can place her relative age at two hundred years, seven months, twenty-three days, fifteen hours, thirty-two minutes, and…ninety seconds."

"I did a little checking on that," Bumper added. "Working from Furmanata's estimates, I checked all relevant historical files, and, within a slight margin of error, I pinpointed a meteor shower over Japan during that time period. And, as we all know, the Quintessons occasionally use drop-devices disguised as meteors. If nothing else, the timing is right. Further, Fujiyama Industries undertook a major mining operation just months prior to Nightbird's reveal."

The small Autobot continued, a slight grin tracing across his face as he recited the results of his study. "According to the papers filed, nothing of any significance was found. In fact, doing a little, ah, judicious use of our priority clearance, I was able to access Fujiyama Industries mainframe and find absolutely _no_ record of Nightbird's construction. It's as though…she just dropped from the sky."

"What about you, Nightbird? Do you remember anything?" Medi asked.

"Unfortunately not," Nightbird replied. "What memories I _do_ have prior to awakening just a short time ago are hazy, as though they happened to someone else and I only learned of them second-hand. I remember some sort of conflict, with beings wearing badges like yours, and then… vast stretches of nothingness. Then, briefly, some wild scramble with you, and then, it was as though the fog had lifted away and I could at last see clearly."

Despite having a face incapable of expression, Nightbird seemed lost in thought. Titling her head slightly to one side, she regarded Furmanata with something not unlike puzzled recognition. "And…I can alsmot recall being somewhat like him, but with more…faces? It know that must sound strange, but it is all I can recall."

"Trust us," Medi-1 replied, "it's not strange."

"Is there anyway we can better access her memories?" Marissa asked.

"We've tried," Bumper said, looking sheepish again. Someone needed to have a long talk with him. He tried hard, that was undeniable, but he had a bad habit of assuming that anything that went wrong was his fault. Almost refreshing, compared to some of the egomaniacs Marissa had worked with, like Sky-Lynx, but ultimately counter-productive. "But there's something about her mind that resists traditional scanning methods, beyond simple brainwave detection."

"Perhaps," Furmanata started to say. "No…"

"What?" Medi asked. "What is it?"

The Quintesson chuckled in the same way Marissa has seen on old Autobot log tapes. It was the same kind of chuckle that preceded a dip in the Sharkticon pit.

"There may yet be a way…_the_ _Psycho Probe_!"

"What," Marissa asked, "is the 'Psycho Probe?'" She certainly didn't like the sound of it; it sounded like some sort of Quintesson torture device. Then again, given that the suggestion had come from a "reformed" Quint, it was more than likely. Still, Furmanata had proven trustworthy so far. Even if she felt like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, Marissa supposed the evidence weighed in his favor.

"An ancient, ah, interrogation device," Furmanata explained. "It was used to actually project the interrogator's mind into the prisoner's, in order to extract any information that cannot be obtained from other means, whether through deliberate or artificially induced blockage. Though ordinarily used only on organic lifeforms, I believe it can easily be adapted to work on Nightbird."

The Quintesson seemed to realize he was speaking about Nightbird with her still in the room. "That is, ah, if Nightbird will allow it…"

"I'm just as curious about my origins as you are," Nightbird said. "If it can be done, then we should do it."

There was a certain, almost touching serenity in Nightbird's voice, as though she were totally at peace with what was going on and thought it all part of some grand journey. Then again, when one's experiences were as limited as hers, one didn't have the chance to be beaten down by life and develop a cynical opinion of it and sentient life in general.

"Unfortunately, the use of the Psycho Probe is risky," Furmanata added. "It is only truly effective when operated by someone trained in its use, and even then, only with skilled operators monitoring the process. It would take to long to teach any of you how to monitor it, let alone use it; only I am capable of such tasks. I can monitor… but others will have to assume the risk and enter her mind."

"No," Nightbird snapped, speaking more forcefully. "I will not allow others to endanger themselves for my sake."

"We're Autobots," Medi-1 told Nightbird. "Helping others is our mission in life. If we refuse to do so, simply because of a threat to our own safety, then we're not worthy of the badge we wear. I'll do it. I'll go into your mind."

"I'll go too," Marissa added.

"General, I can't allow you to…" Shooter started to say.

"Helping others is what the EDC does too, Shooter. I may be old, but I'm no coward."

"But General…"

"It's her choice, Shooter."

"Medi-1, you of all people should…"

"Fine. But I'm officially protesting this."

"Protest noted, filed, and lost," Medi said. "Honestly, Shooter, you're going to give yourself glitches one of these days."

"Oooh! Oooh! Me! Pick me! Pick me!"

"And she'll be the one to drive me to it!" Shooter exclaimed, pointing to the doorway, where Pistachio stood.

"Ah have always depending on the kindness of strangers," Pistachio said. "Now, it's personal."

"You know you don't have to go through with this, Marissa," Medi said, as Furmanata placed the Psycho Probe, a device which looked like nothing more complicated that an oversized set of slightly spiky headphones, over her head, affixing the two ends to where pieces of her armor had been removed, exposing the circuitry beneath. A similar rig was attached to Pistachio, while Marissa's was proportionally smaller and adhered to her temples. Each headset was connected to a central wire, which was joined with Nightbird's head. The four of them were strapped to tables in the med-bay, while Bumper helped finish setting up the monitoring equipment. Shooter and Bullseye stood on either side of the doorway, both trying to mask their disapproval for what was going on and not doing an especially good job of it.

"I know, Medi. The same could be said of you, you know."

"I was responsible for directing Nightbird's reactivation. It is only right that I see this all the way through."

"Then let's just say I feel the same way. I brought the matter to your attention, after all."

"I suppose so, Marissa. Still…"

"Medi, I'm almost seventy-years old. I have _never_ not done something because someone told me it wasn't safe or that I didn't _have_ to. I'm not going to start now."

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Pistachio added, apparently feeling that it needed to be said.

Furmanata cleared his throat. "If you are all ready…?"

"I'm ready," Medi said.

"Thunderbirds are …GO!" Pistachio bubbled.

"I am as ready as I can be," Nightbird said.

"And I'm ready too," Marissa said. "Do it."

"Very well," Furmanata continued. "I will warn you, this will be very disconcerting. As soon as you have any sense of self, you must concentrate on that, focus on making the environment make sense. Eventually, your natural perception filters will take effect and you should be able to navigate Nightbird's mind…but there is still the risk that your mind may be lost among the others'."

It was strange. Marissa knew there was no love lost between herself and the Quintesson and yet…he seemed concerned for their safety. For _all_ their safety, even hers. Maybe she'd have to revise her opinion of him.

And then Furmanata activated the Psycho Probe and Marissa felt like her brain was going to come out her ears, put on a little hat, and do a tap-dance across the floor, she decided that she was going to go on subtly disliking him.

_And she was Medi-1, sparked by a small cell of female Autobots, during the time in which the Decepticons ruled. Hunted to near extinction, living in secret, every little bit of energon rationed. Optimus Prime and his elite were believed dead. Starved for energon, their only contact other than each other was Alpha Trion, eldest of Autobots…_

_And alarms went off everywhere, alarms that should only ring in the event of a planetary catastrophe, that the entirety of the planet's Decepticons can been scrambled. Left on Cybertron while the male Autobots worked from Cybertron's moons, the females remained behind to spy and undermine. And now they, all of Cybertron, was under attack as something, a gigantic being of unbelievable power tore into the planet itself, giant orange mandibles ripping into the planet's metal skin, rupturing energon lines. And tearing deep into the underground caverns, destroying the female Autobots headquarters. Only she survived, the initial explosion throwing her away from the others, sealing her off, surviving while they died and not even Elita's special power would save them…_

_And how the Autobots found her later and she screamed for days on end and they feared she would not survive, feared her mind too far gone…_

_And the Decepticons are swarming Cybertron and the Autobots are dying, left for dead, or stripped of their power packs and Cybertron is hurtling through space, with Earth's sun threatening to overwhelm them all, even as the plasma energy threatens to kill them first…_

_And the great primeval dread as the Sigma Guardian appears, filling her with a coldness that permeates her very spark, for she is not of Vector Sigma, the computer which gave so many of them life, she is something other, something lesser…_

_And she was Pistachio, life arisen from the very Junk itself. And here was life and here was everything. The great Cycloptian Light provided everything. It told of how to live, how to fight, and how to be. And it was a merciful God, for it bestowed its light upon them always, and there was much rejoicing._

_And thus was it their home, and thus did they protect it. Those from the outside, those not of the Junk, were repelled, and, eventually, made part of the Junk, with the hope that they would one day rise from it again. _

_And then came the beings much more like them, almost made of the Junk, but clean and new and fresh. Others like them came, and slaughtered one of the Clean. And then did the Junkions fight to defend their home, until there came the One Who Understood, and there was peace._

_And the Junkions took up arms against the Chaos Bringer, the ultimate cancellation, the test pattern from beyond. They fought as hard as they could, but they nearly died. Many _did_ die, but in their sacrifice did the others live, for those that died became part of their ship, their sacrifice remembered always…_

_And then came the time of great peace, when channels were plentiful and reruns few. Junkion at last left the Junk behind to find newer and stranger Junk, and brought it back, always contributing to the whole, and becoming more complete…_

_And she was Marissa Fairborn, of Earth. And she was born, hazy memories of faces and sounds she did not yet understand, only that where she had once been warm and fed she was now cold and hungry…_

_And she was five years old, crying because she had not gotten that pony she'd wanted for her birthday. Or, at least, that was what she'd told her Grandma. In truth, she cried because her parents had missed yet another important event in her life._

_And she was sixteen and Danny Chase, the boy she thought had loved her, was kissing Pam Macy under the bleachers and she ran, crying all the way home, thinking life could never be good again._

_And she was twenty-four, graduating from EDC training at the head of her class, an officer's commission already awaiting her. She could not have been more proud._

_And she was twenty-six and the closest she had ever been to being afraid for her life, as swarms of strange, missile like-creatures threaten to kill her, Blurr, and Wheelie, stalked by the Predacons and dependent upon someone called "Sky-Lynx" for survival…_

_And she was thirty and walking down the aisle, for she'd let herself realize she loved him, because he was willing to give-up the life he'd loved in order to spend the rest of it with her. And yet, neither her father nor mother were there to celebrate this happiest of moments with her…_

_And she was forty-two and investigating the wreck of a smuggling ship caught between two warring races. And she saw the lettering on one of the larger pieces, and it read _Lazy Sue_, and there, there were the remains of the pilot, a man she'd not thought about for years, but could no longer forget…_

_And she WAS!_

_And she was Nightbird…_

_And she was QR7-456…_

_And she was -_

_And she was not…_

And the world resolved itself into more recognizable terms. Marissa found herself on a flat gray plain. Medi-1 and Pistachio materialized seconds later.

Pistachio gave Marissa a curious-look. Marissa was pretty sure it was just her imagination, but she almost thought she could hear the gears turning in the Junkion's head. "Say, you look different. New glasses?"

"Not quite, Pistachio," she replied.

"Interesting," Medi-1 said. "No translation of scale. I never thought I'd get to look you in the eye, Marissa."

"Neither did I, Medi."

The three of them remained silent for a moment, and that silence seemed almost to be a physical shroud over the three of them. Marissa couldn't recall much, if anything, of just what had happened when the Psycho Probe had been turned on, but she could recall the barest inklings of feelings, feelings and memories that were most definitely not her own.

Still, there were other memories, _her_ memories, memories she wished she could be rid of. They didn't plague her as they used to, but they were always present, always in the back of her mind all the same. As part of the EDC, she'd see much, and sometimes done things she'd wished she hadn't. She could still remember the first time she'd killed a sentient being, the first time she…

And then there were the memories of _him_. In her moment of quiet, in her moments of greatest loneliness, her thoughts always returned to _him_. At one time, she'd thought he'd loved her. At another, she was certain he had not. Now, after so many years, she was only certain that she had loved him, and always had, even after he had decided he could stay with her, that the call of space was too great. When she'd found out he had died, seen his charred and ruined body, a little piece of her had died.

She was not ashamed of her memories, but that did not mean she wished to share them, did not wish to become an object of pity, did not—and this was completely impossible since the concepts involved would be foreign to races of giant robots and giant robots made of Junk—wish to be thought of as some old spinster, pining for a lost love.

"Well," she started to say.

"Yeah," Medi replied, understanding in her eyes.

"Uh-huh," Pistachio added, looking oddly focused for the moment.

"So we're all OK with each other?" Marissa asked. "We don't talk about this, right?"

"Our secrets remain our own," Medi affirmed. Pistachio nodded her agreement.

"Then let's see what we can find out," Marissa said. She pointed off to a spot in the distance. If she strained, she could just make out what looked like a Quintesson starship, screwed into the ground.

"I think you're a little big for a ride now, Marissa," Medi said as she transformed.

"But maybe she don't wanna grow up!" Pistachio said, also transforming. Unlike the Autobot members of the Earthforce, the Junkion femme didn't have a subspace generator, so her motorcycle mode was size-consistent with her robot form. "Let's get ready to rumble!"

Marissa said a quick little prayer that she'd make it out of this alive and hopped on, holding on for dear life as the two Autobots roared forth.

Within moments, they arrived at the ship. Marissa dismounted and her companions transformed. Approaching the ship cautiously, she put a hand on its hull and let out a gasp of surprise as her hand slid right through it, as though it wasn't even there. She pulled it out again and examined it to make certain it was still there.

She sure as hell didn't claim to understand the way in which the Psycho Probe worked. She especially didn't claim to know how things worked inside the mind of an older-model Quintesson slave-robot who'd been modified by both Decepticons and a Junkion.

"What do you think it means?" she asked.

"Forty-Two!"

In contrast to Pistachio's nonsense, Medi's response was more serious. "I'd say this presents Quintesson programming. Granted, the mind is not my field of specialty, but I see little else it could be. If we do not get rid of it, I am certain Nightbird will never be truly free."

Marissa looked at the ship and slipped her hand through its hull once more. "Once more into the breach, eh?" she said.

"Never give up! Never surrender!" Pistachio barked.

As one, the three leapt through the wall.

And they landed in a pit. Actually, it was more like a lake, a lake filled with warm, yellowish, scummy feeling water. And, of course, there would be Sharkticons. The walls were high, the ceiling even higher, so high as to be invisible. The water, nearly waist high, soaked through Marissa's clothes and she felt a chill go up her spine. Though the Sharkticons were not moving, their teeth were in stark evidence. She'd seen what they could do to a Transformer and there was little doubt even the slightest bite would be the end of her. _If_ they were solid, that was. The wall hadn't been, but the water was…

"Well," Pistachio said, "this is another fine mess you've gotten us into, Ollie."

"Can they hurt us?" Marissa asked, drawing her laser pistol. It hadn't had much effect on Sharkticons when they were larger than she, but now, at roughly the same size, it might prove more useful.

Medi-1 had also drawn her weapon. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I don't like this at all…"

AND WELL YOU SHOULD NOT, AUTOBOT, a voice said.

They looked up to find the source: a holographic projection of a Quintesson death-face. As much as it could, it appeared to be grinning menacingly.

I SEE YOU HAVE SOUGHT THE SECRETS OF QR7-456. VERY WELL. THERE IS NO POINT IN CONCEALMENT, AS YOU WILL ALL BE DEAD SHORTLY.

The Quintesson paused, as though to make certain they were paying attention, then continued. QR7-456 WAS MEANT TO BE AN ASSASSIN. WHEN IT WAS LEARNED THAT SOME OF THE MOST POWERFUL DECENDENTS OF OUR ORIGINAL, REBELLIOUS CREATIONS SLUMBERED, YET LIVED ON THE PLANET CALLED EARTH, WE CREATED A WARRIOR TO GO AND SLAY THEM BEFORE THEY COULD AWAKEN. UNFORTUNATELY, OUR DELIVERY SYSTEM WAS FLAWED AND IT WAS LOST. COSMETIC CHANGES WERE SOON WROUGHT UPON HER DISCOVERY, BUT ITS PROGRAMMING REMAINED THE SAME, REGARDLESS OF MODIFICATION.

IT IS STILL PROGRAMMED TO SLAY ALL AUTOBOTS AND DECEPTICONS. RECENT CHANGES HAVE ATTEMPTED TO BLOCK THAT PROGRAMMING, BUT THEY SHALL BE OVERCOME. QR7-456'S MISSION _WILL _BE ACHIEVED!

AND YOU, YOU SHALL SIMPLY DIE. FOR TO DIE IN THE MIND, IS TO DIE IN THE BODY. SHARKTICONS…EXECUTE THEM.

Marissa was firing before the Quint could even finish giving the order. Her blaster bolt passed right through the Sharkticon's head and did no damage at all. Medi-1 fired her own pistol to similar effect, while Pistachio hurled her tire shield. The serrated tire spun through the air and severed a Sharkticon's head before returning to Pistachio's arm.

"It's the power of positive thinking!" she exclaimed, throwing her shield again and destroying another Sharkticon. "You can do it, _all night long! _I'm a winner, I'm a winner, I believe in _me!_"

Medi took aim again, and this time her bolt pierced the Sharkticon's optic and came out the back of its head, destroying everything in between. "You have to actually _believe_ you can defeat them!" she cried. "Don't let your confidence drop!"

"Easy to you to say," Marissa shot back. Still, Medi and Pistachio's words had meaning. By focusing, by _truly_ believing she could defeat the Sharkticons, her bolts did much more damage, far more damage than they would have done under ordinary circumstances, in fact.

They were doing damage, but they weren't winning. The Sharkticons just kept coming, endlessly, as though there were an infinite number of them. And all the while, the Quintesson was laughing, cackling away as they struggled to make any kind of headway. Deep down in the bit as they were, they couldn't even get out.

A Sharkticon grasped onto Pistachio's arm and the Junkion femme cried out in pain as the bladed jaws removed the appendage. Under normal circumstances—and, of course, back in reality—she would have been able to reattach the arm easily, but not when the Sharkticon reduced it to shreds, far beyond even her ability to recover.

Another Sharkticon had transformed and was weathering Medi's blaster assault, its cruel tail whip taking chunks out of her armor. Her circuits sizzled and sparked as the sickly water gushed in to fill the space created and she began to stagger. Only a well-timed throw from Pistachio saved her from total shut-down.

Marissa herself accounted for several of the beasts, always aiming for inside their mouths of their eyes, _willing_ the bolts to have enough strength to penetrate what her mind thought of as their vital innards. Another leapt at her and she stumbled backwards, and slipped, hitting the water with a heavy splash. It was surely the end…

The Sharkticon exploded in a shower of parts. She traced the source and gave a quick nod of thanks to Medi, before hauling herself back onto her feet, brushing her wet hair out of her eyes. She was glad this was only her mind, had things been real, she more than likely would have broken a hip.

More and more Sharkticons kept coming, seemingly out of the depths of the water. That was impossible, given that it was only waist deep, or, at least, _she_ believed it to be waist deep. It made her head hurt just to think about it, especially since she was already battered and bruised already. The Sharkticons pressed on and she was forced to back-up.

When her back finally pressed up against the wall, she looked to either side of her to find Pistachio and Medi similarly trapped; Marissa knew that whatever had brought them through the wall _one way_ would not work in reverse.

"A th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks," Pistachio said mournfully.

**_NO_.**

**_THIS IS _MY_ MIND AND I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO HURT MY FRIENDS. I WILL NOT ALLOW _YOU!**

And the world reshaped itself, the Sharkticon pit and the Sharkticons vanishing, becoming a simple void. Marissa found herself, Pistachio, and Medi resting in the palm of a giant Nightbird. The Quintesson hologram rotated to face her.

YOU? YOU ARE NOTHING. HARDWARE. WE ARE YOUR CREATORS, THE _MASTERS_ OF THE UNIVERSE. OUR WILL SHALL NOT BE DEFIED!

**_I THINK NOT. I MAY HAVE _BEEN_ A SIMPLE MACHINE ONCE, BUT NOW, THANKS TO THIS RARE AND BEAUTOFUL CREATURE, I AM ALIVE. _I_, NOT YOU, SHALL DECIDE MY FATE._**

The Quintesson morphed, becoming in scale with the giant Nightbird, and shifting its form, becoming one of the rarely seen gladiator-types, all green skin and purple armor, arms ending in deadly blades. Unsteadily, Marissa, Medi, and Pistachio raised their weapons, but Nightbird turned and placed them out of harm's way, hovering in the void.

**_NO, MY FRIENDS, THIS IS _MY_ BATTLE, NOT YOURS. AS YOU FOUGHT FOR ME, LET ME NOW FIGHT FOR YOU._**

And Nightbird leapt into the void, energy swords flashing like twin suns. The energy-blades met with the Quintesson's blades in a shower of sparks that left sports dancing in front of Marissa's eyes even after they'd faded. Each parried and thrusted, and neither gained the upper hand, though for different reasons. Nightbird's agility and speed kept her mostly out of the Quint's reach, while its superior strength and physical might kept her blows from doing any serious damage.

Nightbird went at it with everything she had. Throwing stars that would have imbedded themselves in the hardest of rocks just bounced off the Quintesson's armor or were vaporized by the energy he wielded. Bolo-balls were shredded by his blades. Buzzsaws and throwing daggers never stood a chance. Strobe weapons and smoke bombs failed to slow him down. Even optical lasers, streaking across the void like comets of deadly yellow, failed to even scratch its armor.

Nightbird herself, though, was poetry in motion. She leapt and bounced and twisted and contorted in ways that made Marissa's bones ache just to watch. For every blow the Quintesson tried to land, she was already somewhere else, moving so fast Marissa was certain she could see a ghostly after-image for seconds after she had vacated the space. When she struck, her firsts and feet were a blur, hitting with the sound of like that of an automatic weapon. The Quintesson was slow, his blows heavy but easily predictable, even as he energized claws cut through the air, leaving streaks of green-power. He grunted with exertion, but never seemed to tire.

Ultimately, Nightbird made a mistake or the Quintesson became a better guesser—Marissa wasn't certain. But when Nightbird went to deliver a kick to the Quintesson's head, he was ready, snaking an arm around her leg and throwing her the relative ground. His blade ended up scant centimeters from her head.

SURRENDOR, SLAVE. EMBRACE YOUR PRIMARY FUNCTION AND YOU WILL BE SPARED. RESIST ANY FURTHER AND YOU SHALL BE TERMINATED. BUT FIRST, I SHALL FORCE YOU TO WATCH AS I TERMINATE YOUR SO-CALLED "FRIENDS."

**_NO, _**Nightbird said flatly. **_I THINK NOT. TO BE DESTROYED, THAT I COULD STAND, BUT I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO DESTROY MY FRIENDS. I FOUGHT YOU AS I WOULD FIGHT ANY OPPONENT, WERE ANY OF THIS REAL. BUT _YOU_ ARE NOT REAL. YOU ARE A PROGRAM, A PROGRAM IN MY MIND! AND BECAUSE THIS IS MY MIND, I SHALL ALLOW YOU TO DOMINATE IT NO LONGER! I THINK, THEREFORE YOU ARE _NOT!**

And the world went white…

"Marissa? Marissa! Speak to me!" Medi-1's voice cut through the haze and darkness. The medic's face quickly resolved itself before her eyes and Marissa sat-up slowly.

She immediately wished she hadn't. Her head was splitting and she felt dizzy. Reaching out, she steadied herself with Medi's arm. "Remind me never to do that again. I'm starting to think I really _am_ getting to old for this kind of crap."

"You might actually be, General," Bumper said nervously. The little Autobot refused to look her in the eyes. "Your bio-signs became dangerously elevated during your sojourn into Nightbird's mind. You came dangerously close to having a heart attack."

"You should probably take some time off," Medi said, amiably. "We'll manage without you, somehow. Not like we haven't done it before."

"You'll get me to quit when I slump over dead at my desk, rustbucket," Marissa snapped. Then, regaining her composure, she added, "Sorry."

"It's all right. You're stressed. I think we all were."

Medi didn't know the half of it. Both her father and mother had been some of the strongest people she'd know, capable, skilled, amazing. And both of them had died in their beds, long before their time, weak and racked by disease. Though she would never admit it, Marissa desperately wanted to avoid dying in bed. If she had to go out, and she knew it would happen sooner rather than later, she wanted it to be in a blaze of glory, going out on her feet.

She immediately turned her thoughts elsewhere. "What about Nightbird? And Pistachio! Are they all right?"

"I'm lumberjack and I'm OK!"

"Forget I asked. What about Nightbird?"

"I am fine, General, thank-you for asking. And I must thank-you for my freedom. Had you not entered my mind and fell into danger, I know the Quintesson programming would have overtaken me, sooner or later. When I somehow sensed you three threatened, it gave me the strength to act. If three beings who barely knew me would risk themselves so, I had to do whatever I could for them."

"Well, you have my thanks as well, Nightbird," Marissa replied. "But as I said earlier, it comes with the job. Helping people, no matter _who_ or _what_ they are is what I do."

"Speaking of that," Medi said, "what will you do now, Nightbird? You're welcome to stay with us."

"I think… I think I'd like that Medi. I have been used for evil for too long. I would like a chance to do something positive."

"Good," Marissa said, and yawned. She leaned back, suddenly realizing how tired she was. Medi sensed this and ushered the others out.

Marissa's eyes closed and she was soon asleep, dreaming of the long-dead man who had stolen her heart…


End file.
